


Unforgettable

by PipMer



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Amnesia, Eventual Happy Ending, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Misunderstandings, Post-Season/Series 04, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-03
Updated: 2018-12-02
Packaged: 2019-09-05 19:17:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16816786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PipMer/pseuds/PipMer
Summary: After a head injury, Sherlock Holmes forgets almost everything from his recent past. One particular thing, however, has remained in his memory palace: one John Hamish Watson.But what are they to each other? Because from certain clues, it appears as if there has been a monumental shift in the status of their relationship.





	Unforgettable

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lyciuum](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lyciuum/gifts).



> This fic is for Lyciuum, who bid on me during the 2018 Fandom Trumps Hate auction, and who generously donated to Planned Parenthood. I am sorry for the late start, Lyciuum, but I do hope that you enjoy. I hope to post the next chapter within the next couple of weeks, holidays permitting.
> 
> Rating may go up in later chapters.
> 
> A big thank you to iwantthatcoat who beta-read this for me.

The first thing he noticed was the bright light; the second followed swiftly on its heels. Pain. Stabbing and relentless. He heard someone groan, and was shocked to discover it was himself. He tried to lift a hand to his head, but his arm felt like it had a 25 pound weight attached to it. In the midst of its ascent, another hand, warm and familiar, grasped it and gently squeezed.

“Sherlock?”

He’d know that voice anywhere.

He opened his mouth and tried to speak, but nothing came out. He licked his lips and tried again. Still nothing.

His eyes were still closed, but he had no desire to open them. The light pressing down on them was already too bright, almost painful. Another hand cupped his forehead, blocking most of it and providing a measure of relief.

“It’s all right,” the voice said again, soft and low. “Give me a tic; I’ll dim the lighting.” Both hands disappeared and the presence shifted away. Sherlock felt the loss keenly. Thank goodness it only lasted a few seconds, just long enough for the sharp brightness to fade away. Before any time at all had passed, his companion was once again settled at his side and Sherlock’s hand was once again being held.

Sherlock tried again. This time he was able to push the word past his lips at a volume just a bit louder than a whisper.

“John?”

“Yep,” the voice cheerfully replied, albeit with a bit of a wobble. “Good to have you back. You had us all worried.”

Eyes still closed, Sherlock asked, “What happened?”

“Oh, you know. The usual. Suspect clocked you with a two-by-four, you went down like a ton of bricks, I tackled him and trussed him up, called an ambulance, contacted Scotland Yard -- all in a day’s work.”

“Ah. I see. So case solved, then?”

“Of course. Murderer caught. Statement given by yours truly. Then you lay here like a bloody corpse, with no concern for anybody else’s schedule. Thank god for Molly and Mrs Hudson, otherwise Rosie may have starved or otherwise been neglected.”

Sherlock’s brow furrowed. Something teased at the edge of his consciousness. He opened his eyes to mere slits, testing the light. Finding it bearable, he slowly lifted his eyelids until he was looking at the face of a very worried John Watson.

Sherlock frowned. John looked… different. *Very* different. Lines on his face that Sherlock didn’t remember having been there. And his hair… greyer, and worn in a much different style than he had before. And thinner. So much thinner.

John grinned, and that act alone took years off his face.

“There you are! Let me notify the doctor. I’ll be right back.”

As his observations clicked into the right slots in his brain, panic bloomed in Sherlock’s chest. “Wait!” He tightened his grip on John’s hand. He licked his lips. “How… how long…?”

John gave him a reassuring smile. “Just three days. Not so long, considering. Still, shaved ten years off my life, feels like.”

Sherlock blinked. _Looks like, too,_ he thought but did not say.

Just before John gently pulled away, Sherlock’s fingers brushed against something smooth and cool. He looked down and saw a plain band of gold adorning John’s left ring finger. Sherlock’s stomach did a dance.

The situation couldn’t *possibly* be what it appeared to be. What in the blazes was going on?

* * *

A day later, Sherlock lay in his hospital bed alone, thoughts racing. He thought the examinations, tests and questions would never end, but at the end of it all he was pronounced well on his way to a full recovery. His left arm was badly bruised and sprained, but no bones were broken. His skull and brain had been left relatively unharmed from the blow that had sent him into a brief coma. John had been a steady presence in the room for almost the entire time. Part of Sherlock wondered a bit about that, but then again, John was a medical doctor and had been right there during the attack, the first person to begin treating Sherlock’s injuries. Or so Sherlock had been told. 

John had left a while ago, promising to return before visiting hours ended. With a twinkle in his eye, he had said that he was bringing back a surprise for Sherlock. All Sherlock really wanted was answers and some clarification.

Obviously some time had passed since his last pre-accident memory. At least a year, quite possibly a fair number more, given the changes in John’s appearance. Nobody else had been by to see him yet, given that the doctors had only just cleared him for such. When administering the cognitive tests earlier, they had asked him who the current prime minister was and the year, but John had just laughed and told them those were things Sherlock didn’t retain with a perfectly functioning memory, let alone while sporting a head trauma. He correctly passed all of their other tests: he knew his name, his birthday, his address, and any number of other questions designed to evaluate his mental state and thought processes, not to mention his physical state. Sherlock admitted to a gap in his memory of several days, but no more.

The butterflies in his stomach wouldn’t abate. He didn’t want to allow himself to hope. The chances were minuscule, if even possible at all. John had never given any indication that he returned Sherlock’s carefully hidden feelings; in fact, John had always come across as the stereotypical straight male, willing to chase anything in a skirt, so to speak. Then again, if a number of years had passed, who knew what could have transpired between them, given the chance? Given his own feelings, even though he had repressed them as much as he had, it wasn’t beyond the realm of possibility that he had finally surrendered and given in to sentiment. But John? In a relationship with _Sherlock?_

Sherlock needed clarification, and yet he was loathe to ask for it. What if it turned out that John was living somewhere other than Baker Street? Apparently they still solved crimes together, but how often? And who was Rosie? A pet? A girlfriend?

A wife?

  
“Papa! Papa!”

Sherlock started, his eyes flicking to the doorway of his room. John stood there, looking quite handsome in a cobalt jumper and freshly pressed khakis. There was a satchel hanging from his shoulder and a small child in his arms, a child that was reaching for Sherlock and calling him…

“Yeah, she just started calling you that,” John said, his expression sheepish. “I hope you don’t mind.”

Sherlock stared at the blonde, curly-haired child who sported the same blue eyes that John had. He swallowed past the lump in his throat.

“Why would I mind?” he croaked, mind spinning.

John shrugged. He stepped into the room. “Wasn’t sure how you felt about it.” The child started bouncing up and down in his arms, straining forward as she repeated, “Papa! Shelrock!”

Sherlock smiled in spite of himself, and was pleased to see John mirror it back. “Knew you’d appreciate a visit from your number one fan. Hush, Rosie! I told you Sherlock was sick, remember? He can’t hold you right now, but maybe tomorrow. Can you tell him what you saw on the way here?”

“Bee! Bumblebee, Shelrock!”

Sherlock huffed, charmed beyond all reason. “Indeed? You weren’t frightened, were you?”

Rosie shook her head. She stuck her fingers in her mouth and regarded him with a somber expression. Sherlock’s heart swelled.

This was unquestionably John’s child. John’s DNA proclaimed itself all over her features, from the shape of her nose to the colour of her hair and eyes, right down to the way she seemed to peer into his very soul.

Which begged the question --

“She’s been missing her bedtime stories. She doesn’t like my voice nearly as much as yours.” John sat down in the chair next to Sherlock’s bed and opened up his satchel, carefully balancing Rosie like a pro. “Which is why I brought a storybook. Thought you could read a chapter to her. Unless it’ll put undue strain on you, of course. The chapters are short.”

John handed the book to Sherlock. John was right; most of the pages consisted of colourful pictures, so the text wasn’t too overwhelming. Sherlock opened to the first page. He looked up at John and Rosie’s expectant faces. Clearly this was something that he did on a regular basis.

Sherlock’s eyes returned to the text. He felt alert enough to read a little bit, at least, and really: how long could a toddler’s attention span really last? Something warm and bright flared in his chest.

Sherlock cleared his throat, and began to read.

* * *

The last memory Sherlock had before waking in a hospital bed, was of falling asleep on the train from Grimpen, after the Baskerville case. That had been a good one -- satisfying on every level. Life had been good for several months. Several exciting cases had made their way to them, satisfying both Sherlock’s restless intellect and John’s financial concerns. John had basically stopped dating, after the Jeanette fiasco, which made Sherlock happy on many different levels. The only thing resembling a cloud on the horizon had been the Moriarty threat, and Sherlock hadn’t been at all sure that was going to lead to anything more than just some poking and teasing whenever Jim became sufficiently bored.

But now… well, this situation certainly threw a wrench into all of that. Now everything was unsettled, topsy-turvy, and confusing. He didn’t like not knowing what the hell was going on.

At least he knew that he still lived at Baker Street, and that John and Rosie lived there as well. In what capacity exactly… well. He would find that out soon enough, when John arrived in an hour to take him home. After spending another three days in hospital after regaining consciousness, Sherlock was more than ready to see the backside of his room, private though it was. He didn’t want to see another doctor besides John Watson for a very long time to come.

But...what, exactly, was he going home _to_?

  


The last thing Sherlock expected was to be wheeled out to a fiery red Aston Martin, and told to get in already, you daft bastard. What he was expecting was a black London cab. And since when did John drive? Last Sherlock knew, he didn’t even have a valid license. Which was why Sherlock had been the one to drive during the Baskerville case. Well, apparently John could not only drive, but the way he deftly maneuvered around traffic and street corners spoke to a bit of experience in that regard. And whose car was it, exactly? Sherlock couldn’t picture himself *ever* owning a vehicle, let alone one so flashy. That was more John’s style.

What else had changed? Sherlock was almost dreading arriving at Baker Street, for fear of what he might see.

And why exactly had he not yet admitted to the extent of his memory loss? Was it more than just the great Sherlock Holmes admitting to a bit of vulnerability? Or was there something more, there? Something that he was trying to avoid?

“Penny for your thoughts.”

Sherlock blinked. He shook his head in order to clear it.

“Hey. Are you all right?” John placed his hand on Sherlock’s knee and gave it a squeeze. Startled, Sherlock looked up at John, and saw….a softness to his expression that he had never seen before. John had always looked at him with a certain fondness, but this? This was something altogether new.

And, if he were honest, frightening.

Sherlock swallowed. He glanced down at John’s hand on his knee. The gold band that was still there sparkled in the sunlight coming through the car window.

“Fine. Just tired.”

John smiled. “All right. Let me walk you in before I park this thing.”

“I’m sure I can make my way into my own home on my own, John.”

Sherlock opened the car door and feasted his eyes on the comforting sight of a black door with familiar gold numbers and a knocker. He couldn’t shake the feeling of finally coming home after a long journey. Which was patently ridiculous; he hadn’t even been gone an entire week. Why did it feel like a lifetime?

John was at his side in an instant, carefully threading his left arm through Sherlock’s right; Sherlock’s left was in a loose sling. “Let me walk you in, then I promise I will let you be. Head injuries are tricky; better safe than sorry.”

Sherlock wasn’t about to shake John loose, not when his closeness did something funny to his chest and stomach. Something not altogether unpleasant. He was glad for the help once they got to the stairs. Sherlock got dizzy about halfway up and had to stop for a moment before continuing on. John’s steady presence remained by his side all the way into the flat.

John patted his shoulder. “Here we are. I’ll be right back, just need to park the car.”

And just like that, Sherlock was left standing in the doorway to his own flat feeling like an intruder.

His eyes flicked over the sitting room. Everything looked familiar, and yet somehow not quite the same as he remembered. The yellow smiley-face was on the wall, but the bullet holes were slightly off. The decor was essentially the same, with evidence of a small child scattered here and there. Books and toys lay scattered hither and yon. Some pictures that he didn’t recognise now graced the mantel, so Sherlock took tentative steps forward to get a closer look.

Most of the pictures were of Rosie -- some by herself, some with John... and one even with Sherlock, both of them grinning into the camera. Sherlock almost didn’t recognise himself, with the look of pure uncomplicated joy on his face. Brought to life by a child, apparently.

A larger picture was set apart from the rest. Sherlock moved forward to take a closer look - and his jaw dropped.

Well. This was corroborating evidence for a theory of his, at any rate.

Sherlock and John both stood facing the camera, happiness radiating from every pore. Dressed in matching morning suits, boutonnieres and top hats… and matching grins. Here was a John that Sherlock recognised, at least in appearance. Hair cut short, more gold than silver, a boyish expression on his face. Stockier. Younger.

Sherlock reached out a hand and stroked the edges of the silver frame. Married? He and John? How long ago had this transpired? And how had Rosie come to them?

Sherlock’s hand started to tremble as it traced the image of John’s face. Mortified, Sherlock withdrew his hand and clenched it into a fist as he stepped back. Thank god John was not around to see such a display. Speaking of, he would be returning soon, so Sherlock had to pull himself together and start acting normal. As if he didn’t feel unmoored and totally at sea.

Sherlock swallowed past the sudden lump in his throat.

For the first time in years, he yearned for his big brother to tell him how to fix this.

Unfortunately, that was the one person that he always refused to turn to for help.

  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
